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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602092">To the Nines</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightSkies/pseuds/StarlightSkies'>StarlightSkies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, ASIT spoilers, Emotional Repression, Erotic Dreams, First Time, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Pining, Sewing, Tailoring as an expression of love, Wet &amp; Messy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:28:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602092</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightSkies/pseuds/StarlightSkies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian rarely takes advantage of Garak's tailoring services, and when he finally does, he has a bit of an odd request. No matter — he’ll make sure the Doctor is dressed to impress, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter.</p><p>Set during late season 5. ASIT-compliant.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elim Garak &amp; Mila Garak, Elim Garak/Palandine (past), Julian Bashir/Elim Garak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Special thanks to Nadat and sociallychallengednerd for both their patience and feedback as I worked my way through this fic. It’s truly been a labor of love — to be precise, a <i>letter</i> of love from me to Garak’s profession, which I am closely acquainted with. Oh, and there’s garashir, too, because that’s the whole point.<br/>Thank you for picking up this fic, and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>“Come, Elim.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Mila watches him and he ducks his head swiftly, chastened. He knows there is still work to do yet, and that Uncle Enabran will not be understanding if they are back too late. He can’t help himself, though: the display window is enticing, a blaze of warm light in the gathering dusk. The nights have grown shorter and the air cooler as</i> si’aska’dehl <i>approaches, but the mild discomfort is forgotten as Garak gazes through the thick glass, wonder welling up inside him.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Cardassia City’s finest clothiers have outdone themselves yet again. Their line of winter garments are a sight to behold, all long, flowing lines and exquisite veskat fur trims against richly spun golds and coppers which shimmer, mirage-like as Garak cranes his head this way and that. He doesn’t know why he’s fascinated, yet he always is. Perhaps it’s the idea of creation, the very process of shaping something from almost nothing. Or perhaps it’s the glittering display, clearly meant to entice the unwary observer. A clever ploy on their part, really, but whatever the reason, Garak finds he doesn’t care. It’s beautiful.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Reluctantly, he pulls himself away, and when he looks at Mila, there is an odd expression on her face. To his seven year old self, it looks soft. Almost fond, which his mother never is. It is gone as quickly as it has come, and Garak wishes he could forget it. It feels too private – something ought not to be seen, nor remembered.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div>Garak remembers it anyway, of course, even so many years later. One of the many virtues of being Cardassian; even if traditional schooling hadn’t guaranteed his eidetic memory, Bamarren, if not the Order, certainly would have.<p>Perhaps that’s what puts him in a strange mood that morning as he raises the shutter across his shop door. By the very fact of his species and education, he can call upon memories as often as he chooses, from any moment in his life, and recall them as clearly as if they were occurring there and then.</p><p>Of course, he’s also become extremely good at burying memories over the years. Almost as good as he is at tailoring, and that’s a feat in and of itself. He is, after all, a very good tailor – a fact which had delighted him to no end during the early days of his life aboard Terok Nor. One of the memories Garak truly savors is the look on Skrain Dukat’s face upon collecting his first newly-mended uniform. He hadn’t been able to find a single fiber out of place, and had sneered that it must have been beginner’s luck.</p><p>They had both known, as Garak still knows very well, that no such thing exists. Luck is a concept for the weak-minded, for those who cling to nebulous wishes and false promises. Luck has no equivalent in the Kardasi vernacular because Cardassians have no need to rely on it (Dukat had spat the word in Bajoran, which had been even more disturbing). Truthfully, he hadn’t even fully understood the idea until the good Doctor had explained it using, of all things, a quote from one of his spy novels.</p><p>“‘Luck in all its moods had to be loved and not feared,’” the Doctor had said, putting his own enhanced (<i>Cardassian,</i> Garak had substituted) memory to good use. “‘Bond saw luck as a woman, to be softly wooed or brutally ravaged, never mind pandered to or pursued.’ Don’t give me that look, Garak, I <i>know,</i>” he’d added, raising a brow. “The point is, Garak, Fleming’s analogy isn’t incorrect. Luck isn’t something tangible, nor controllable. You can’t predict it, and one day you might find it abandons you entirely. It’s far from a literary masterpiece, so I won’t force you to read <i>Casino Royale.</i> But the whole point he’s trying to make is that the two things out of your control are luck and love, and failure at either forces a man to accept his own fallibility.”</p><p>Much as Garak had been loath to admit it, even to himself, Fleming might have been wiser than his unfortunate choice in protagonist. The part about acceptance of one’s own fallibility – that, in particular, Elim Garak understood.</p><p>And perhaps it’s a form of luck that brings blessedly few customers to his door that morning. He can’t tell if it’s the recent news from the war that causes the eerie hush on the ordinarily boisterous Promenade, or perhaps someone had forgotten to send him the station-wide memo that another highly contagious, genetically engineered virus had begun to make its way through the station and the general populace was confined to quarters until further notice. Whatever the cause, Garak is grateful for the absence of intrusions; by lunchtime he’s already finished hemming Ensign Rakel’s new uniform jumpsuits, reinforced the seat of Morn’s second favorite pair of trousers for the third time that month, begun the beadwork on his latest collection of Bajoran winter tunics, and drafted the bodice block for Vel Lyna’s wedding dress well ahead of schedule. It’s astonishing how much work can be done when one isn’t required to pander.</p><p>He’s just finished working out the math on the bust darts when a flicker of movement catches the corner of his eye. Garak looks up, only to find the Doctor peering into his shop, one hand still on the doorframe.</p><p>It’s funny, really. On occasion, he can almost make out the shadow of the young, eager man from six years before. Perfectly at ease within the comfort of his constructed certainties, yet hesitant when confronted with the moral ambiguity of the Universe at large. It’s during moments like these, as he steps inside and casts a wary glance about the room as if he’s intruding on something, that Garak realizes how very little has changed at all.</p><p>“Garak,” the Doctor greets him, and Garak is reminded uncomfortably of the fact that he himself has not changed very much in essentials, either.</p><p>But rather than dwell on the simple pleasure of his name given shape by Julian Bashir’s voice, he gives a nod, and dons his very best cordial smile.</p><p>“Doctor. To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>“Ah. Well – you see, it’s a bit unorthodox, but – erm. I’ve got a favor to ask,” he says, and Garak pretends to rummage through the confines of his sewing kit for his lint brush, all the while taking stock of what Bashir isn’t telling him.</p><p>He’s not the best in the galaxy at reading humans, but a lifetime conversing in two languages simultaneously has done him a few favors. Just one more odd thing about most Federaji races, he supposes; they always do themselves the disservice of saying exactly what they mean, often when they don’t quite know what they mean themselves. A pang shoots through Garak, just as it always does when he permits himself to think of Cardassia. Of home, where the merest quirk of a brow ridge or flick of the wrist says just as much as any platitude ever could.</p><p>The Doctor is tense, his posture guarded and close. He’s doing a spectacularly wonderful job at broadcasting the fact that he has something to hide, most likely something he wishes to keep from Garak himself.</p><p>Intriguing.</p><p> “You certainly have gotten my attention,” Garak says, smiling wider. Yes, he certainly had.</p><p>“I’m. Ah, well, I’m in need of a garment.”</p><p>“A garment.”</p><p>“Yes. A whole outfit, really, I suppose,” the Doctor continues, still looking vaguely uncomfortable. He brings a hand up, as if to scrub at the back of his neck, but seems to think better of it and aborts the gesture midway.</p><p>He’s learned a little over the years. <i>At least he knows when he’s being obvious,</i> Garak thinks, but ensures his smile remains impassive.</p><p>“And what sort of outfit are we discussing? I should like to know what I’ll be making before I agree to it, as my clients are my advertising. I’m sure you understand.”</p><p>Judging by the delightful flush that rises across his cheekbones, the good Doctor <i>does</i> understand.</p><p>“Well, if you don’t want my business..." Bashir starts, an indignant frown crossing his face, but Garak holds up a placating hand.</p><p>“Doctor, you mistake me.”</p><p>“Do I.” He shoots Garak an unimpressed look, but it’s clear he can’t keep the faint smile at bay for too long.</p><p>“Now.” Garak stands, dusting the stray threads from his tunic and tugging it back into place. “Do you have something in mind, or shall I invoke creative liberty?”</p><p>“It’s a bit of a special request.” The Doctor shifts from one foot to the other, avoiding Garak’s eyes. “I was wondering....”</p><p>“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”</p><p>“I was wondering if you could make something Cardassian-style.”</p><p>Of all the words he’d been expecting, those had been among the least. They catch him so off-guard that Garak can’t quite slip the mask on quickly enough, and Bashir undoubtedly notices his surprise.</p><p>“I dare say, that <i>is</i> an unusual request,” he says carefully after a brief silence, though his mind is racing. “But not,” Garak adds, “one that I am incapable of fulfilling.”</p><p>Bashir brightens visibly, and Garak wishes his duplicitous mind would kindly leave him be. He’s well aware of the havoc Julian Bashir’s smile wreaks on his emotional state without having to be reminded of it each and every time it happens.</p><p>“I know it’s odd, but...the occasion is an important one,” Bashir says, and perhaps Garak imagines it, but there’s a moment where he looks almost bashful. Soft around the edges, somehow, a candor to his expression that Garak wants so badly to look away from. It feels too personal, too private, and altogether too intimate for them to be standing in his shop at midday in full view of the Promenade.</p><p>He wishes Julian wouldn’t make that expression in front of him. It promises falsities and reignites fantasies which he’d very nearly laid to rest.</p><p><i>And it is not meant for you,</i> Garak reminds himself sternly. It never could be.</p><p>“Rest assured, Doctor, you’ll be well-dressed,” Garak says, offering him a smile. “My people are nothing if not...opinionated about couture.” It’s only a half-formed hypothesis, but he decides to test it out anyhow. It wouldn’t do to ask directly — and what other possible reason could Bashir have for making such a request?</p><p>He flushes again, more deeply this time, and Garak is grimly satisfied when he realizes he’s hit the mark.</p><p>“I’m — it’s not,” Bashir sputters. More quietly, then: “that is, it might not <i>work.</i>”</p><p>“Oh, trust me, Doctor. By the time I’m through, she’ll be so impressed she’ll have no choice but to say yes.” Though Garak wishes this ambiguous "she" would. At least that way, the ache might be lessened.</p><p>For a split second, Bashir looks as if he might say something else. It hovers between them, the pause in speech taking on some meaningful suggestion, but it ends all too abruptly when the Doctor clears his throat.</p><p>“I have full confidence in you, Garak,” he says, before glancing toward the chronometer on the wall. “Lunch on me? It’s the least I can do to thank you — besides the fee.”</p><p>Garak wants to say yes. Needs to say yes, if their friendship is to continue, but he merely returns the smile, fractured though it may be on the inside.</p><p>“Not today, I’m afraid. I’ve a rather demanding client who will require my <i>full</i> attention.”</p><p>Bashir grins. “Another day, then. I’m still not through debating you on <i>In Times of Fallen Snow.</i>” </p><p>“Nothing would please me more,” Garak says, and for once, it’s the closest to the truth he can manage. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some drafting to do.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div>“This is hopeless, Doctor,” Garak sighs, shooting him a reproving glance. “I’ll never finish if you don’t hold still.”<p>“Sorry,” Bashir replies, not sounding the least bit sincere.</p><p>Garak tuts quietly, but stretches the measuring tape down his arm to the protruding bone in his wrist, making note of the length, before looking up.</p><p>“Flex your bicep for me,” he requests, and the Doctor raises a brow in return. He’s clad in his uniform undershirt, jumpsuit top tied loosely about his waist, and Garak can’t decide whether he should be scandalized by the unfortunate shade of lilac or glad of the tightness of the fit. It leaves a blessedly small amount to the unsuspecting Cardassian imagination, and not for the first time, he thinks he really should have a word with Starfleet about the competence of their uniform design staff.</p><p>But perhaps that can wait...at least until after the fitting, he decides, encircling Bashir’s upper arm with the tape. </p><p>He moves behind the Doctor, tapping an admonishing finger at the small of his back in an effort to correct his posture. Not only did measurements require that the client be standing nicely, but Garak also occasionally worried whether the station’s Chief Medical Officer wasn’t too busy looking after everyone else to correct his own bad habits.</p><p>Bashir straightens and sneaks a guilty look behind him while Garak takes his shoulder and back-neck to waist measurements. “I thought you had my measurements on file,” he remarks, unable to suppress a smile.</p><p>“I never put my faith in the past. Nor in old measurements,” Garak says smoothly, brandishing the tape. “Besides which, it’s been quite some time since you were in need of my services.”</p><p>To his credit, Bashir does look a bit contrite at that. “Ah, yes. Not since...Paris, I suppose.”</p><p>Garak would never understand Earth formalwear, but the clumsy silhouettes and alien patterns provide ample distraction from the other events that had taken place during that particular holoprogram. The ghost of a bullet glancing across his neck, stinging at his ridges and hot, sticky blood seeping into his immaculately pressed collar. The unmistakable thrill at Bashir’s coldness, amplified by the imminent danger. The surge of desire that had followed, a fire which he’d long tried to stamp out, now blazing more intensely than ever before.</p><p>Yes, ample distraction, indeed.</p><p>He admonishes himself for allowing his thoughts to stray so easily, and very pointedly does <i>not</i> let his gaze linger any longer than necessary on the curve of Bashir’s hip, nor the sweeping lines of his legs beneath his trousers. He’d fitted the Doctor’s uniforms himself, like he had most of the other officers’, and Garak flattered himself that they <i>were</i> flattering — as much as they could have been, anyway. </p><p>“I don’t think we discussed the matter of your fee,” Bashir remarks as Garak kneels before him, drawing the measuring tape taut about his hips. He steals a glance upwards to find the Doctor regarding him with a peculiar expression. Almost fond, though he hardly dares to think it. “I still owe you for taking in my tux.”</p><p>“Poorly replicated though it was,” Garak says, and knows it is fruitless to try to prevent the traitorous warmth that has blossomed in his chest, “consider it a personal favor. The shirt, however, was not.”</p><p>“True. You did make it yourself.”</p><p>“And with almost no forewarning. You should consider yourself incredibly fortunate that I found a pattern in the replicator databases.” That was a lie, albeit a small one. He’d done his proverbial homework on Earth formalwear fairly early on in their friendship, though Bashir didn’t need to know that.</p><p>It’s getting dangerously difficult to think; the proximity is intoxicating in a way that Garak cannot fully fathom. He hasn’t been so affected in years, and as he stands to measure his friend’s waist, he carelessly allows his hands to move with him, smoothing along the contours of Bashir’s figure. To his mild surprise, the Doctor doesn’t move away. If anything, he moves closer, lifting his arms to grant better access to his waist. They lock eyes, and the challenge Garak sees there surprises him, though he masks it with some difficulty by busying himself with the tape. </p><p>“I think it’s the nicest thing I own,” Bashir says, a teasing edge to his tone, though he is unfailingly genuine in his words, as usual. “Any chance I could get you to make me a few more?”</p><p>“I hardly think it would be fair to my other customers if I didn’t require some form of compensation.” He’s emboldened by the blatant flirtation, though Garak cannot figure out entirely where it has come from. “But,” he adds with a pointed look at Bashir’s wrinkled uniform, still slung carelessly about his hips, “the starching is free of charge.”</p><p>Bashir laughs softly, and the warmth brimming in his gaze stokes at the embers smoldering in Garak’s stomach.</p><p>“How lucky for me,” he says, impossibly close now, close enough that Garak can feel the delicious heat radiating from his skin. “Are all your clients subject to this sort of attentiveness?”</p><p>“I find that it’s an excellent way to guarantee repeat business,” Garak returns, wondering what it might be like to be pressed bare against that skin, to feel it warm and real against his scales. How it would react to the touch of lips or tongue or teeth. How easily it might mark under duress, and how lasting such marks might be. He longs so desperately to see Bashir riddled with the evidence of his desire — lovely bites and bruises that he himself had caused in satiating this unbridled, impossible yearning for this man.</p><p>“Ah, a business strategy, then,” Julian says with a cheeky grin, that delightful flush spread carelessly across his face once more. He regards Garak from under dark lashes, which flutter temptingly as he sweeps his gaze very obviously down his friend’s figure and back. “A pity for me, though. And here I was hoping for a discount.”</p><p>“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,” Garak murmurs, abandoning all pretense of measuring him, and whatever else the Doctor might have said is lost in the searing kiss that follows. </p><p>He’s lost in sensation: lips, tongue, teeth, hands on his ridges, fisting in his hair. And State help him, Garak can’t control himself, not here, not now. Not with Julian Bashir twined around him, breathing hard against his ear as he presses hungry, open-mouthed kisses along Garak’s jaw.</p><p>“I hope this was included in your...<i>arrangement,</i>” Bashir whispers, a husky edge to his voice that Garak has never heard before, which sends a shiver prickling up his spine. He punctuates the statement with yet another kiss, this one softer and less demanding, but the inferno behind it is still real and dangerous and something deep in Garak’s treacherous mind whispers that perhaps he should just allow it to consume him.</p><p>He resists the urge, though. He’s never been inclined to surrender, let alone so quickly, and he catches Bashir’s lower lip between his teeth, hands finding their way beneath that <i>hideous</i> turtleneck.</p><p>“I confess, I didn’t anticipate this particular scenario,” he says, nearly a gasp, and feels a shock of lustful heat course through him at the moan that follows. “But you do have the most delightful habit of surprising me, Doctor.”</p><p>“Julian,” he clarifies, and one hand slips lower, strokes languid circles against the front of Garak’s trousers where the need burns most fiercely. “It’s Julian.”</p><p>“<i>Julian—</i>”</p><p>Garak awakens with a start, panting heaviliy, an ache in his groin and dampness between his thighs. He rolls over, pillow muffling the frustrated groan that forces its way from his throat.</p><p><i>A dream, then,</i> he thinks, hollow disappointment gnawing at the gaping hole that’s been left inside him.</p><p>And one he should’ve stamped out of his wayward mind long ago. He can’t tell which is worse: the raw, unsatisfied burning in his blood, or the shame which follows.</p><p>Really. This had gone far enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kardasi notes:<br/>si’aska’dehl - the Cardassian late fall into winter period, marked by a week of festivity at the end of the year.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>The weeks have been an angry blur, and Garak loses track as they slip by, one spiteful, loathsome day after another. Tain had been right. About everything, most of all his sentimentality, and the relentless torrent of emotions suffocates him with no sign that it will ever abate.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He sets down the trousers he’s meant to be hemming to inspect them. The stitching is fine, pinprick blind hem barely visible against the dark gray fibers. Even Mila couldn’t have found fault with it, for all her expertise.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A memory slips back to him, unbidden, as he stares across the table.</i>
</p><p>“Pull the thread tight. Tight, I said, Elim,” his mother chides him, and the clumsy knot loops about itself as he fumbles it through his small fingers. They’re seated outside in the warm springtime sunlight, far enough away from the house that the overbearing, constant presence at his back has lessened. It’s moments like these where he can believe that Tain isn’t watching, distantly critical of things privy only to himself.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. Mila sighs, but takes the needle from him and ties a quick knot after snipping the old one. Her surgical precision is methodical in a way that speaks to a different part of her life, one wholly unconnected to the pleasant play of sunbeams across his ridges, which itch fiercely. Garak resists the urge to squirm in discomfort, knowing Mila won’t approve; they’ll be grown in soon enough, but the wait is agonizing.</p><p>He wonders about his mother, sometimes, but he’s still young enough to be distracted by the glint of her scissors as she sets them down in the basket beside her. He’s always loved her sewing kit with its odd bits and baubles, and always loved watching her mend clothes, working effortlessly as if it were no more troublesome for her than breathing. Lately, she’s taken to asking him for help with her mending, a rare privilege: she takes her duties as Tain’s housekeeper seriously — so seriously, in fact, it’s a bit frightening at times.</p><p>“You’ll be grown soon,” Mila says eventually, handing the trousers back io him. “It’s important that you learn to fix your own things. I won’t be there to do it for you.”</p><p>“Am I leaving?” Garak studies the rough-spun linen, noting the feel of the soft, worn fibers between his fingers. He’d been aware of the possibility. His emergent ceremony wasn’t far off, and after that, everything would change. He wouldn’t be sent to an Institute, surely; that was an honor reserved only for those with the money and power to afford such a position. </p><p>But the promise of change was still an uneasy one. Looking to the future was useless. The way forward was shrouded, so more often than not, Garak put it out of his mind. He could still cling to this familiarity for a while yet, and only hope that when his life finally shifted, it wouldn’t become unrecognizable.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Mila replies shortly, and Garak gets the impression that his mother, as usual, knows far more than she’s letting on. “And you waste time speculating when we have work to do. Now, try again. Just like I showed you.”</p><p>“Yes, Mila.”</p><p>
  <i>He’s rudely interrupted in his reverie by a loud clatter, and looks up to find Skrain Dukat standing over him, chin thrust out in his usual arrogance and drawn to his full height, as if he somehow thinks this intimidation ploy will finally succeed. Garak frowns at the pile of uniforms which have just been dumped unceremoniously before him, and Dukat laughs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“This week’s batch. I trust there won’t be any problems, tailor,” he says, a sneer curling about the last word, rendering it poisonous and snakelike.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He watches Dukat retreat, bitterness welling up like bile in his throat. Only a few short years ago, he could have had Dukat removed. Eliminated, even, for daring to speak to him thus, though it wouldn’t have been wise.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He picks up his needle with a sigh. Until he could get the shoddy old machine Dukat’s staff had provided in working order again, he’d resigned himself to hours of hand stitching. No doubt Dukat’s plan for him all along — death by bloodied fingers and rampant humiliation.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It’s ironic, really, that this mediocre life is the only thread that still binds him to his old life and Cardassia. His home. Mila.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Palandine.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div>He’s not sure what brings him to Quark’s. Ordinarily, Garak would be well pleased with a replicated meal in his own quarters, far away from the prying eyes of the station’s other inhabitants who had never quite fallen out of the habit of considering him a local curiosity. On any other night, perhaps he’d order a kanar after his meal, mildly disappointed by the poor imitation of saccharine, sticky sweetness on his tongue — but satisfied, albeit hollowly, that no one could intrude on the privacy of his thoughts.<p><i>Well,</i> he thinks, taking a slow sip from his glass. <i>At least the kanar is good.</i></p><p>Garak savors the cloying burn against his tongue and throat, but the rare indulgence is somewhat soured by the view.</p><p>Quark shakes his head, muttering to himself as he wipes down a glass. “What do you think he sees in her?” he asks, glancing toward the second level where Doctor Bashir is seated with a woman. </p><p>She’s beautiful in a severe, almost handsome sort of way; Garak can tell even from here. There’s a pleasing jut to her jaw and the sweep of her cheekbones, her blue-black hair pulled back in an intricate twist. She’s tall, perhaps even taller than Bashir himself, and dressed elegantly enough that even Garak can hardly find any points to criticize.</p><p>Yes, she’s attractive enough, and very, unmistakably Cardassian.</p><p>Bashir leans forward, face intent save for the small, besotted smile that threatens to upend Garak’s precarious emotions yet again, and says something quietly. Judging by Quark’s annoyed expression, he can’t make out what it is either, but it earns him a throaty laugh from his dinner companion.</p><p>“I should think you’d know,” Garak replies, a touch acidly, “considering you yourself were once a connoisseur of Cardassian beauty.” He knows he shouldn’t, but the barb slips out anyway. As skilled as he is at dissembling, it still hurts.</p><p>Quark grimaces. “Low blow, Garak.”</p><p>“Apologies.” He takes another sip of kanar. </p><p>They both know he isn’t sorry, but Quark sighs, and pours him another drink anyway.</p><p>“You could go talk to them, you know,” he suggests, setting the glass on the bar top. The vivid blue liquid undulates gently, catching the low light in flashes of electric cobalt and deep, midnight velvet as it swirls about the glass, and Garak watches it intently for several long moments. It’s a good enough excuse for distraction from the scene playing out not three <i>deca</i> above his head.</p><p>“To what end? I see no need to interrupt what is, undoubtedly, an enjoyable affair.” He meets Quark’s eyes, and what he sees there surprises him: the Ferengi understands. Not, perhaps, the entirety of the matter, but Quark is no stranger to hopeless causes. It’s little comfort, but against all rational thought, it soothes the sting, at least.</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Quark says with an apologetic shrug. “Just a suggestion.” He steps away to refill Morn’s tankard and chat with the other patrons, and Garak reaches for the glass.</p><p>Sometimes he takes quiet pleasure in the thought that Quark is still mildly afraid of him. It’s a bittersweet reminder of the old days, when a mere look could invoke fear in any of his targets. Now, though, it merely leaves Garak feeling hollow — more so than before, anyway.</p><p>He’s not sure how long he sits there. It’s at least a standard hour by his estimate, and no one else approaches him. It’s no surprise; the Doctor would be the only one, and he’s otherwise engaged.</p><p>He’s just about to tell Quark to put the bill on his tab, when an unmistakable voice stops him.</p><p>“Garak!”</p><p>Guls take him, but he can’t decide whether he craves this hopeless interaction or rues it. Garak slips the genial mask on easily as the Doctor pushes his way toward the bar, date in tow.</p><p>“I didn’t think I’d find you here this evening. Enjoying yourself?” Bashir asks, and despite his warm countenance, something else flickers behind his eyes. It disquiets Garak most of all to know that he cannot quite determine exactly what that something is. The Doctor had changed as time slipped by, and Garak took no small satisfaction in thinking that at least part of the metamorphosis was his own doing.</p><p>Still, Bashir had secrets, a startling revelation which had coincided with the discovery of his augmentation. He’d hidden it well over the years — almost as well as a Cardassian. And the disturbing question that remained was: how many?</p><p>“I always do — though not quite, I suspect, as much as yourself.” </p><p>Garak inclines his head, meeting the other Cardassian’s gaze, which is predictably impassive. He has a better look at her now, in the golden glow of the main room, when he stands to perform the expected niceties: hawkish nose, graceful, sweeping ridges which frame deep amber eyes. There’s a dash of blue highlighting her <i>chufa,</i> and Garak lets his gaze wander unsubtly to the scales of her neck. A matching stain adorns the fourth scale down; it’s a clear conveyance of romantic intent, though Bashir may be none the wiser.</p><p>A proclamation, then, to other Cardassians, though this leaves several new questions unanswered. Garak himself is the only one nearby, and of that he is reasonably certain. It’s difficult to be inconspicuous on a Bajoran station, after all, and unless this woman has a staunch love for traditional values, this is a very clear message. One meant for him.</p><p>“May I introduce Doctor Atala Par’dal? We met at a conference several months ago,” Bashir says, and she steps forward with a courteous nod in greeting.</p><p><i>At least she has manners,</i> Garak thinks wryly, returning the gesture in a slight half-bow. Not for the first time, he wishes Bashir could understand the implications of <i>rek’voss’ad,</i> but it is merely that: a wish, which he keeps tucked away with the rest of his unrealized, impossible dreams.</p><p>“Garak,” he returns shortly, though he’s careful to keep his tone light.</p><p>And then, the unexpected: Par’dal casts a critical eye over him, looking him up and down, as if sizing him up somehow. He wonders briefly if she knows of him — it wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a close brush with ghosts from the past, after all — but he tamps down the unsettling feeling that prickles at his ridges. It could very well be that Bashir has merely told her more than he’d realized.</p><p>Instead: “I trust your visit has been a pleasant one so far.”</p><p>She laughs. “Doctor Bashir has made sure of it. I’ve had to remind him several times that I’m here on <i>business,</i> even if I’m not unwilling to make room for pleasure.”</p><p>Something twists in his gut, then. It’s cold and darkly possessive, and despite his efforts to eliminate it over the years, sometimes it still gets the better of him. It had never been intolerable, seeing Bashir with his partners — until now, that was. Garak can’t tell what’s changed, either, but there’s a particular, savage sort of irony in seeing the Doctor entangled with one of his kin, perhaps because it renders all of his deepest desires ever more vivid: soft sunrises on golden skin, strolls arm-in-arm beneath the towering city walls, the taste of red leaf tea upon lips which utter breathless platitudes beneath the silent moons. </p><p>Not meant for him, however. Elim Garak has no right to wish these things, least of all now, when his hope of returning to Cardassia is as slim as it’s ever been.</p><p>“Far be it from me to distract you from your pleasant evening,” Garak says smoothly, and gives another, shorter incline of his head.</p><p>As he leaves, not waiting for the Doctor’s reply, he doesn’t stop to look back, and in doing so misses the regretful look in Julian’s eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kardasi notes:<br/>deca - a Cardassian unit of measurement, roughly equivalent to a meter.<br/>chufa - the forehead “spoon.”<br/>rek’voss’ad - the Cardassian art of body language, which often communicates more than verbal speech.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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